Il Sangre
by FarDareisMai2
Summary: Carlisle's time with the Volturi in the 18th Century leaves an indelible mark upon him, and poses the question: is it all in the blood?


_A/N: This story was originally submitted as an entry in the Carlward contest several months ago. I did it in the last minute, and I was never happy with what I submitted. So, I decided that before I posted it to my profile, I would rework it. I finally did._

_Huge thanks go out to **rmhale** for her initial down and dirty, last minute (and I **mean** last minute) beta job on the first version, and to **bfigment, zeewriter, **and **annetteinoz** for doing the final beta work for me. From catching my typos, to fixing clunky sentences, and fixing my pathetic attempts at Italian, they helped massage this piece into something that I'm not quite so embarrassed to publish._

_As always, these characters don't belong to me. They belong to SM. I just like to make them do . . . different things._

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><p>The final notes of music drift across the room, and then the applause begins. Aro's effete, "Bravo! Bravo!" is discernable above the other voices. I turn and head toward him, my feet beating a cadence on the vast marble floor, but otherwise not echoing. The rounded chamber of Volterra Castle was designed with excellent acoustics.<p>

In marked contrast to my footsteps, Aro glides toward me, his knee length breeches and stockings showing his well formed calves to perfection. "_Bellisimo_, wasn't it Carlisle?"

I incline my head toward him. "Indeed it was, Aro."

"Quite a gifted virtuoso," Aro continues. "And he is quite beautiful, no?"

"Aro," I begin.

"Tut, tut, Carlisle, do not begrudge me this. Look at him. Look at that hair, at the way the light catches it. It almost looks silver, does it not? To run your fingers through such hair . . ." Aro lets the words trail off.

"I fed earlier."

He grimaces and waves his hand in disgust. "That is not feeding. It is . . . well, it's revolting actually. Still, forget feeding for the moment." His red eyes shine with excitement. "He is lithe, graceful. Look at the way he moves."

Our eyes turn toward the young singer, and I cannot say that Aro is mistaken. The boy _is _beautiful, with large, blue eyes, framed by long lashes. His skin is fine and pale, and with our enhanced vision, I can just make out the faint, bluish pathways of his finer veins. Although he's of age, he is youthful in the manner of the _castrati_. His limbs are long and graceful, his torso thin and lean, and the way his breeches hug his arse is quite lovely.

"Yes, Aro, he is stunning."

"He is also quite willing, and quite a lusty bed partner, or so I am told. These _castrati_ are insatiable. You should bed him."

Although my new life affords me a much different view of the world in regards to love and sex, and the relations between men and women, or men and men, I am still a product of my strict, religious upbringing. At times, Aro, or any of the Volturi for that matter, still shock me with their candor.

"Aro," I hiss. "Please."

"Oh yes, I would be pleased."

Over the decades that I have struggled with what I am, I tried once to lie with a woman. To my everlasting horror and shame, not only did I nearly bite her in the throes of passion, I also caused grave injury to her, and she died the next day. It was a long time before I allowed myself to seek out human company again, and I have not taken a human lover since. One of the many benefits of meeting and staying with the Volturi is the number of vampires gathered together; vampires who enjoy the lusty and physical part of their natures.

Sex is not the only reason I stay with the Volturi. I enjoy the refined manner in which they live, so very different from the vampires I've encountered in England. The Volturi are educated, and we engage in lively debates about religion and God, politics and war, philosophy and logic. The brothers Volturi—Aro, Marcus, and Caius—also spend a good deal of time trying to "cure" me of my aversion to consuming human blood.

They cannot understand why I won't drink from humans. Aro insists that it is simply nature; just as humans slaughter cows for sustenance, we eat them, and that guilt over the matter is ridiculous. I point out that there are limits to what people eat, that not every animal is considered a lesser creature to be used as food.

"But man was still given dominion over them all," he replies.

Caius argues that there are no gods, no afterlife, no soul, and that we as immortals, are gods on earth who are entitled to feed on whomever we wish. I ask him to prove there is no God, or that we have no souls, countering that the very fact that I desire to show mercy, that I have compassion for humans, is indicative of having a soul.

"How does one prove the nonexistence of something?" he asks.

Finally, Marcus wonders what I will do if I find my mate and they are still human. His is the only point for which I have no argument. I cannot imagine bringing someone over, as it would require not only drinking from them, but having the strength to stop, yet I also cannot imagine spending an unending future alone and unloved.

"The mating bond is strong, irresistible. Some even say you will only ever have one, but I have my theories on that. In any event, I think I would like to be there when you meet yours." He eyes me speculatively as he makes the pronouncement.

Aro takes to bringing ever more lovely humans to my attention, trying to seduce me with their bodies, hoping I'll snap mid-coitus and drink. The warmth of them, the beauty, the smell of their arousal, is heady, intoxicating. It's becoming difficult to ignore and with one touch, Aro knows it.

I leave for a week after the night of the _castrati_'s performance, needing to hunt and get away from the constant temptation. Herds of deer and other large game are plentiful in the hills near Volterra, and I take my fill, gorging myself on them, but never quite dulling the burn at the back of my throat. It's something I've learned to live with, something Aro says will only be slaked by human blood. If that is the case, I am determined to continue to suffer it willingly.

The night I return, the Volturi host a masked ball. I dress the part of the hunter, in a pique of irreverence. The room is filled with humans, their presence assailing my senses—their warmth, overt sexuality and, of course, their blood. I am grateful I've fed so thoroughly.

After an hour or so, I need to escape the almost suffocating scent of them. I step outside on one of the balconies, letting the fresh air clear my head. A few minutes later, I smell Aro approach.

"Carlisle, there you are!"

I watched as he glides over to me. "Aro, did you need me?"

"No, no. I just wanted you to meet someone."

He beckons to the doorway and a figure moves out to the balcony. Aro's eyes dance with mischief as a young man steps forward. He is slight, young still, perhaps eighteen, but his body is well proportioned and he seems fit. He moves forward with a fluid sensuality, like a great cat.

Ironically, he is dressed as a stag, with antlers adorning his auburn hair. His clothing is brown, and he wears a small mask across his eyes. It emphasizes his cheekbones, which seem sculpted, and his lips are plump, red, and after he licks them they glisten wetly. He is beautiful, sensual, almost exotic.

Hunter and stag; I can tell Aro is pleased, smug even.

"Carlisle, this is Edoardo."

"Buona sera, Signore." He takes another step forward and bows.

I take a breath to answer him, and stagger at the assault on my senses. The _smell_ of him is incredible, and the ever present burn at the back of my throat becomes a furnace. I've never wanted to drink from a human as much as I want to from him, not even when I was first turned. I grip Aro's arm to steady myself.

"What have you done to me?" I ask, panic tingeing my voice.

Aro's hand covers mine and then knows. He slides behind me, his hands on my shoulders, both restraining and reassuring. "I did not know, believe that. I merely wanted to tempt you, but I had no idea . . ."

"No idea of what? What is this?" I ask in a hiss, my eyes never leaving Edoardo, who is clearly confused and becoming embarrassed.

"_La tua cantante_. He is your singer, Carlisle."

"Marcus said it was a myth!" I struggle against Aro's grip.

"He is old, not infallible."

"Let me go," I beg him.

I feel Aro's cool breath on my neck. "Why, Carlisle? Is he so enticing? So irresistible? I wish I could hold your hand the entire time and experience this with you."

Images of my hands in Edoardo's hair, yanking his head back, licking up his neck and sinking my teeth into the soft flesh flood my mind. I imagine the way that taste would coat my tongue, the back of my throat—my instincts filling in the gaps of my inexperience. I shake with the effort of holding back.

"Please, Aro."

"_Buon appetito_, Carlisle."

Aro releases me, and I stagger forward. I watch Edoardo flinch. He senses something, his instincts crying out, acknowledging that there is something very wrong with us. I wonder what I look like to him, knowing my eyes have gone completely black. Holding my breath so I won't be further tempted, I turn and jump off the balcony, running into the hills, Aro's voice calls out behind me.

I run for miles until I come across a herd of ibex, which I attack savagely, gluttonously, gorging myself on several of the animals before I'm finally in control of myself again. I'm not sated. How can I be, knowing _he_ exists? But, I'm able to calm my thoughts, beat back the pure animal instinct that's driving me, control the beast that is raging inside and still demanding I return to the castle and drain the boy dry.

Contemplating my reaction, I analyze it with the same precision I apply to my studies and philosophical debates with the Volturi. I know that my reaction is base instinct, much like the desire of a newborn to mindlessly tear into the first human it encounters, even its own family. What is interesting, and different from the reaction of a newborn, is my sexual arousal in Edoardo's presence.

As I sit and replay the events in my mind, cataloguing my body's various responses, I recall the thirst, first and foremost. Then, the pressing need to _possess_ him, to have my hands on him, to touch him everywhere and hold him still. Finally, I remember being hard, incredibly so, in fact. Just thinking about it, about him, makes my body react again. Still, I am determined to return to the castle; determined to prove that I can control myself, just as I had as a newborn.

My return to the castle is received with a flurry of activity. Aro, Marcus and Caius are all fascinated by the discovery of my singer, and how I managed to restrain myself from consuming him. I see members of the Volturi guard staring at me as I pass, hear their whispers follow in my wake. Demetri falls into step by my side.

"Is it true?" he asks. "The boy is your singer?"

"That is what Aro believes."

"How did you resist him? They say a singer is impossible to resist, that their blood calls to you as no other, like they're made just for you."

I don't answer, because truthfully, I don't know what kept me from attacking Edoardo. All I can think was that some sliver of sanity, some tiny bit of who I am, of my humanity, of my soul, managed to overrule the beast inside.

I enter the sitting room, and find Aro, Marcus, and Caius sitting in chairs, almost as though on thrones.

"Carlisle!" Aro greets me, as though my entrance is a surprise.

"Aro." I incline my head. "Caius, Marcus."

And so my inquisition begins.

For the next hour they ask me questions, ranging from what Edoardo smells like to me, to how I felt when I smelled him, and what I think of him. How does his scent compare to other humans? Is there a distinction because he is male? Did feeding on animals after fleeing sate me? Am I attracted to him sexually?

"Fascinating, just fascinating," Marcus says.

"I'm glad I could provide you with such material," I deadpan.

"Carlisle," Caius chides. "Humor him. This is a subject that much interests him."

"I'm curious," Marcus asks. "Do you think the attraction is just in his blood?" He stands and paces, then turns. "Or, is it something else? Something more . . . spiritual, perhaps?"

"I do not know," I answer. "Truly, I do not."

"If it is the blood," Marcus postulates, "Can it run through a family line?" Marcus continues to theorize and talk to himself, as he ponders the possibilities.

I see Aro motion with his hand before he turns to me and says, "You may want to take a deep breath now."

I do so and a moment later, Edoardo enters, flanked by two of the Volturi guard, although he does not look frightened. He should be. Every one of the guard is hand chosen for their ruthlessness, their gifts, and their devotion to the Volturi and their way of life.

"Edoardo," Aro greets him cheerfully. "_Il mio bel regazzo, benvenuti_." Aro stands and walks behind the boy, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently.

A growl starts low in my throat. I feel . . . possessive of Edoardo, inexplicably so. I hardly know the boy, and if Aro wants to make a meal of him, or do anything else with him for that matter, it is not my place to say a word. Yet, a violent urge to rip Aro's arm from his body engulfs me.

"Calm yourself, Carlisle. We have been taking good care of young Edoardo. No need to worry."

He steps away from the boy, spreading his hands, perhaps in offering, perhaps as a conciliatory gesture. My feet move of their own accord, until I am standing in front of Edoardo, and then my hands are touching him, checking him for injury, skimming over his skin.

"Truly, I am well," he tells me.

As my hands make a second pass along his jaw, he turns and kisses the palm of my hand, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Fascinating," I hear Marcus whisper. "I see the ties, singer and mate."

Determined to prove that I can master my baser instincts, I take him by the hand and beg our leave of the brothers. I still have not taken a breath, pulling Edoardo outside, where his scent will be less potent. The day is cool and gray, and I don't have to worry about revealing our secrets, if any still remain with this boy.

"You shouldn't be here," I tell him.

"But you are here."

I take a breath, and there it is again, the agony of the burn. Tamping it down with everything in my power, I continue, "You're not safe here."

"I'm perfectly safe here. The Volturi treated me like an honored guest."

I run my thumb over his lips. "You're not safe with me," I whisper.

Instead of answering, he leans forward and presses his lips to mine, soft and full, and I fall into the kiss, delighting in him, allowing his tongue to wend its way into my mouth, until I feel the tight rubber band of my control ready to snap, and with a groan I push him away.

"You don't know what you toy with," I growl.

"I don't toy with you," he retorts. Anger flickers in his eyes, and his skin is flushed. "I want you, Carlisle, like I've wanted no other. I cannot explain it. I hardly know you, yet it's like you've possessed me." His eyes grow wide and he steps toward me. "Tell me, is it true? Are you incubi as the rumors say? My dreams . . ." shaking his head, he continues, "I do not care. Just tell me, please, how is it that I want you so?"

I laugh. "No, we are not incubi." Although, it is my understanding that the start of that particular area of demon lore likely started with some of our kind.

Thinking that perhaps time spent outside, acclimating myself to his scent, his presence, will make it easier for me to control my desires, I suggest, "Shall we take a walk?"

Taking my cold hand in his much warmer one, he smiles. "Yes."

We walk for a long time, talking and learning about each other. He is the youngest son of a large family. His father owns olive groves and is a successful merchant of oil. Educated by the best of tutors, but with no head for business, Edoardo spends his time reading and writing.

"What do you write?"

He blushes and looks away. "Poetry."

I beg him to share something with me, but he refuses. "No, I am not very good. It is a diversion. My father wishes I showed interest in the business, so I could help my brothers. I know I disappoint him, but my mother, she dotes on me, and he on her, so he indulges me."

Weeks pass in this manner, and slowly I acclimate to his scent and am able to spend more time indoors with him, until eventually we can pass an evening in the same room. It is never easy, in fact, in some ways the torment grows, yet I've realized that I love him, completely and irrevocably. With each passing day I fall deeper and deeper, and it is this feeling, this _human_ feeling that stops the beast inside, that allows me to hold him close and kiss him, and more.

However, with each step forward, there are several back. The first time he bares his chest to me and I taste his skin, I spend the rest of the night out hunting. The scent and taste of him, the sound of his blood rushing just beneath his skin as he flushed, pushes the last shreds of my control to their limits.

And the first time I take his cock into my mouth? Suffused so full of blood it's thrumming with it? I'm tormented beyond all reason, and even after the deer and ibex I can still taste him, smell him, need him. Nothing is enough, but it has to be.

It has to be.

We find a meadow, lovely and bright, and I've given up all pretence of hiding who I am. Edoardo is not surprised. The villagers and townsfolk have long whispered rumors, some more fantastic than others; most make us sound like angels or demons, or both. In any event, he is not surprised. He runs his fingers over my skin and through my hair, peeling my clothes off reverently and dropping kisses in the wake of his fingertips.

He falls to his knees before me, and then I know nothing but the wet warmth of his mouth and the feel of his hair between my fingers, silken and thick, the burnished copper of it stark against my too pale digits. I strive not to grip him too hard as I scream out my release. Then he looks up at me, his lips swollen and red, desire radiating from every pore, and I can see the pulse point in his neck pumping, hear its subtle _pumppump_ and in moments I'm clinging to the trunk of a tree, my nails gouging into it as I battle my instincts.

"Carlisle?" He walks toward me.

"Don't," I beg him.

"I trust you," he tells me.

"You shouldn't."

"I love you, Carlisle. _Ti amo_."

He's even closer, but I feel something give at those words. Something takes the beast inside by the scruff of the neck and holds it at bay. I release my death grip on the tree, and it verily groans in response. I reach out to him and pull him close to me, relishing the feel and smell of him, even as the burn in my throat increases.

I feel myself grow hard against him once more, feel his arousal pressed against me in return, but then his stomach makes itself heard.

"You're hungry!"

"I can wait."

"No," I tell him, and brook no argument.

When we return to the castle, I take him directly to my rooms, stopping only to order food for him. I make sure he eats every bite, until he begs me to stop. "Please, Carlisle, truly, I've had enough," he says with a smile.

Such a beautiful smile.

He stands and walks over to me, and I see him come to a decision. "I will share my poems with you," he begins.

"I sense a caveat," I respond.

Then, like a cat, he crawls into my lap, straddling me. The burn in my throat increases tenfold, and I'm sure that my eyes have gone black.

"I will share my poems with you," he repeats, leaning forward to whisper in my ear, "if you spend the night loving me the way we both want."

The tight control I've held on myself snaps at his words. With the speed my kind possesses, I have him beneath me on the bed. His green eyes go wide, but when my mouth descends on his, his lips part for me and my tongue delves in, and God, his taste is exquisite.

Sweet and perfect.

Exercising every ounce of control I have, I make my way down his body, undressing him and loving him with my mouth and my hands, taking care to be gentle, making his pleasure my first priority. His body is lean, perfect, and responsive, reacting to every touch, every caress, and each kiss.

When I reach his cock, I take him into my mouth; he arches his back, a hoarse cry of delight escaping him. I suck and lick, retreating and descending, until a coarse babble of obscenities escape him and he comes, filling my mouth with his release, which I swallow greedily, savoring his taste.

Then I take my time preparing him, knowing he can't take me easily otherwise, and when I finally slide into him, finally fit my body to his, I know paradise. Sheathed in his body, the heat of him surrounding me, I finally understand Marcus' words: _singer and mate_.

I thrust into him over and over, listening to his cries of pleasure, delighting in them, relishing in the way he moves beneath me and holds me, as if _I _was the one who was special and precious.

"Edoardo, _il mio amore_," I whisper in his ear.

My love.

My mate.

Mine.

I hear him cry out once more with his release, feeling it warm and wet between us, and with him clenching around me, I empty into him. It's rapture. I never want to lose it, to lose him. He is mine, my mate, my future.

Mine.

As my hips pump a final time, and I feel him become limp and pliable beneath me, I lean down to his ear once more.

"_Ti amo_," I tell him. "Forgive me."

Then I bite. I'm going to make him mine forever.

They say pride goeth before the fall, and I am so proud of my self-control, so arrogant. As those first gushes of his blood touch my tongue, the beast rallies. I swallow and swallow, mindless of his thrashing, deaf to his whimpers, sentient only of the exquisite sensation of completion, of fulfillment, of perfection.

When the horror of what I've done finally dawns on me, the cry I let out brings most of the guard and the Volturi to my chambers, even the wives are roused from their rooms, where they find me clutching his lifeless form to my chest, wishing for tears I no longer have.

It takes Aro an hour to convince me to give Edoardo's body to Demetri.

I don't know what they do with his remains, and I depart the Volturi's company the next day.

For decades I wander, alone, a shell of the man I'd been. After a time, I once again allow myself to live among humans, but I never again take pleasure in one.

I do, however, return to Volterra once to learn what happened to Edoardo's family, after which time I begin to track their descendants.

Marcus believes that perhaps it is in the blood. I spend centuries hoping he is right.

It is 1918 and the height of the influenza epidemic that is killing thousands. A young man and his mother are admitted, and as soon as I walk into the room, I know.

I check the chart, and there it is: _Edward Masen_.

It is no coincidence that I am in Chicago in this time. It is where I've tracked the last remaining descendants of Edoardo's family, but the trail had gone cold and I remained here with the hope that somehow I would find him again.

"Edward?"

Green eyes struggle to open, regarding me with desperation.

I take a deep breath, confirming what I already know.

"Edward, my name is Dr. Cullen. And I'm going to need you to trust me."

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><p><em>an: Thanks for reading. _


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